


Eternal Silences

by Emma



Series: The Queen's Magicians [17]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:44:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma/pseuds/Emma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is playing with life and death in Cardiff, and Doctor Owen Harper is fed up with it all. This is <em>Meat</em>. And it's nothing like it. Although there’s food involved….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread. _Blaise Pascal__

Owen cocked an experienced eye at the sky and decided he could keep the convertible's hood down for at least a few hours. It hadn't rained much to speak of in the last couple of days, and the morning looked to be sunny and, if not quite warm, at least tolerable. If he managed to get out of Caernafon before rush hour and a bit ahead of the tourist buses, he should be in Fishguard in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever took his fancy.

He left the city with the sunrise and drove at his usual pace as far as Dolgellau. There he left the A roads and followed Ianto’s neatly hand-drawn map through tiny roads that meandered along the shore through groups of houses barely large enough to be called towns. He felt something inside his chest loosen and he realized Ianto, damn his perceptive eyes, had been right. He needed the slow path for a while.

Skirting around Fishguard he took a lane that wound through a stand of stunningly beautiful trees. No. Not beautiful. Majestic. Ancient and wise. He didn’t know a thing about trees, but these awed him. He stopped the car and closed his eyes. For a brief moment he could have sworn he heard human voices in the rustling of the leaves, but then his hard-headed side took over and he snorted. He wasn’t the kind trees spoke to.

He drove on, past the trees and across the rolling green pasture that dipped down to the beach. Beyond it, perched on the hillside, a Victorian mansion looked out to sea. There was some sort of formal garden in the back, but his eye was immediately drawn to the profusion of wild roses growing down the slope and over the sand. The sea was a smoke-colored sheet of glass all the way to the horizon, broken only. by three jagged rocks rearing into the sky. Wild Rose Cottage had an air of the fairytale about it, and Owen calculated that keeping it so artfully unspoiled cost a great deal, both in cash and labour. Still, it was probably worth it; the place was pricey, but was always booked years in advance. He wondered what strings Ianto had pulled to get him a room.

At the reception desk, a charming young girl with dark hair and blue eyes fairly glowed when he introduced himself. “It’s so nice to meet you, Doctor Harper. I’m Mairi. My mam and tad have mentioned you. You met them at Ianto’s engagement party? Caradoc and Siana Howell? Mum is Ianto’s second cousin or first cousin once removed or something like that, with this family, who knows? Ianto told me to give you the sea garden room if it’s available and it is,” she produced an old-fashioned iron key without a single break in the flood of words, “ so you’ll be able to have a nice night’s sleep away from the other guests.”

She hustled him down a corridor to a door that led to a patio facing the sea. Across the flagstones, closer still to the sand and water, a small hexagonal pavilion sat in the space between the wild roses and the house, nearly hidden from view by the large restaurant and kitchen wing.

“There’s an inner door,” Mairi said, “but most people prefer the patio entrance, if it isn’t raining.” She opened the French doors and motioned him in. “It’s very peaceful in here, I’m sure you’ll sleep well. I hope you don’t mind, but I had the kitchen send in some pastries and fruit, since you didn’t have breakfast this morn…” The words stopped abruptly and she looked at him with wide worried eyes.

“Clairvoyance?” he said gently.

She nodded. “Only in small things, so far, but Sister Gwennog thinks it will improve.” She handed him the key. “Supper starts at six, but if you want you can order something in. Room service is available until eleven. It's all good. My mam does the cooking.”

“Thanks, Mairi.”

He watched her cross the patio, feeling a touch of envy for her open, artless friendliness. He could not remember ever being that trusting with friends, much less strangers. He supposed that was the difference between growing up in the middle of a large supportive family and growing up with a mother who resented his very existence and couldn’t wait to kick him out of the house as soon as it wouldn’t get her hauled into the bishop’s court.

Shaking off the sudden melancholy, he looked around. The room was mostly taken up by a canopied bed made out of some sort of dark wood, with tiny side tables that held reading lamps and diminutive crystal dishes filled with sugared almonds. It faced a second set of French doors that led down to the water. To one side of the bed, an arch led to possibly the most luxurious bathroom Owen had ever seen. Across from the bed, between the two sets of French doors, a round table with two chairs was placed slightly to the side of a fireplace. On it was a tray with, as promised, pastries and fruit, and a full carafe of coffee.

He poured himself some, sniffing in delight at the wonderful aroma. So, as he had always suspected, the coffee making abilities of the Joneses was either genetic or a closely-held family secret. He poured a little cream in and swirled it gently clockwise, as Ianto had instructed. The first sip had him shivering with pleasure. With his free hand he reached for a croissant. One bite left him convinced Siana Howell, nee Jones, was as good a baker as any in the best patisseries in Paris.

He ate another croissant and made deep inroads into a bowl of fresh berries. In spite of the coffee he was beginning to get pleasantly tired. With nothing much to do, he decided to indulge. Pulling off his jacket and boots, he crawled under the duvet. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke the sun was low in the sky and the room was filled with shadow. He vaguely remembered dreaming of a storm at sea and a coracle storm-tossed on the waves, but the dream skittered away into his subconscious as soon as he reached for it. He went into the bathroom, took a piss, and splashed some water on his face. One quick look at his watch told him it was a little after six. He wasn't really hungry yet so he pulled on his boots and his jacket and started for the beach.

The path down to the sand was set out with glass spheres balanced on iron tripods. The spheres glowed with a gentle blue light; a close look revealed solar batteries discreetly tucked away to one side. The air was filled by the soft scent of the wild roses. Owen snorted. No wonder this place was so popular with honeymooners.

He stepped off the path into the sand and started to jog in the direction of the three rocks. Out here the scent of roses was overwhelmed by the cool, salty breeze coming off the sea. There must have been a storm out in the channel; he wondered if he had heard the distant thunder in his sleep and that had triggered his odd dream.

As he came up parallel to the three large rocks out in the water he noticed that they were connected to the beach by a causeway half-buried in the sand and water. He wondered if he could make it out to them and back before the tide came in, but decided against it. He had no idea how strong it could be in the area and he didn't relish smashing up against basalt. Besides, his stomach was growling and the thought of some nicely grilled fish was much more agreeable.

He turned back towards the hotel but was brought up short by the sound of someone in pain. He looked around but couldn't see anyone. He shook his head; it was probably the wind in the rocks. Then, he heard it again, much more clearly and this time he had more of a sense of location. He clambered over the rocks, searching with his hands as well as his eyes in the disappearing light, until he found it.

A man lay face down in the sand, half in and half out of the water, his legs wedged into a natural crevasse in the rock. If the white hair and beard were any indication he was fairly advanced in years, but the arms were muscular and the wide hands strong. One eye opened briefly as Owen bent down to take a closer look, and there was something in the icy blue that seemed to have weighed and measured him until it found its answer. Then, as the eye closed, the illusion of power was gone, and there was only a nearly drowned old man.

Owen worked his hands under the man’s arms and managed to haul him out of the water beyond the tide line. He made a quick physical examination but couldn’t find anything other than a few cuts and bruises. He sat back on his heels. His first impulse was to run for help; the old man needed to be checked for internal injuries. Instead he found himself Centering into his gift.

Gwen had once asked him what it was like, being able to See inside flesh and bone, to find illness or trauma and Heal it with his mind. He had explained it in technical terms, the same way his first professor had explained it to him, but it wasn’t the whole answer. There was power in it, but it didn't bring satisfaction; that came later, if the patient recovered. It was a sense of connection to something outside himself, something enormous beyond comprehension , something willing to share power when it suited It, but only for Its own purpose. Mostly there was knowledge, and Owen had craved knowledge from the moment he could raise his head and look around his cradle.

He let the power and the knowledge flow through him, he raised his hands above the old man's body. Vital signs were strong, but there was an odd secondary energy, almost like the image left behind one's eyelids if you stared at the sun a bit too long. It felt like Talent, but not one Owen had encountered before. That didn't surprise him. Considering his work, he did more autopsies than healing, and the vast majority of that dealt with trauma caused by violence. The important thing was that the old man would recover. Sitting back he dropped his hands to his lap, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the fresh sea air cleanse him.

“Thank you.”

Owen opened his eyes. The old man had pulled himself into a sitting position. The blue eyes were trained on him with unnerving intensity. It reminded Owen of Jack at his most inquisitorial.

“You're welcome. If you can walk to the parking lot, I can drive you to the local Healer...”

"That won't be necessary.” The old man jumped to his feet and Owen followed suit. The old man looked around. “Well, this was not the way I intended to visit Kymry, but that cannot be helped.” He stretched like someone just waking up, then grinned at Owen. “Thank ye, garmhac, but my road is in the other direction. We will meet again, I think. Yes. Three times we will meet and on the thrice... we will see, then, won't we? Aye, that we will. Now, go have a good supper and a good night sleep, garmhac.”

There was something in the voice that made disobedience unthinkable. Owen turned away and started back towards the hotel. He had taken several steps when the compulsion seemed to lift and he turned back to look at the old man.

The beach was empty.


	2. Chapter 2

The cell phone on the bedside table laughed maniacally. Owen slapped at it but missed. The phone laughed again. Owen pushed himself up with a groan. He had stayed late at the hotel the day before, enjoying the breeze and the water and eating the most exquisite food, and had reluctantly dragged himself back to Cardiff late at night, planning to take advantage of Jack's generous offer and waste the day away doing nothing. Well, it was Torchwood. Emergencies guaranteed.

The madman laughed again and Owen cursed the day he had let Toshiko have his security codes.

“I'll take care of the problem, Owen,” he mimicked Tosh's sweet tone, “you're a technophobe and machines can sense it. Witch. I wonder what horror movie she got that damned ringtone from.” He snapped it up and stabbed at the answer button. “Yeah?”

“I'm sorry, Owen, but Jack wants you back right now.”

Ianto's strained tone made Owen sit up. “Who?”

There was a short silence and then Ianto snorted. “Nothing like that, you prat. Kathy and Andy brought something to our attention and Jack thinks you're going to have to be lead on this one.”

“All right. Let me take a quick shower and I'll be right there.”

As he showered, Owen reflected that he always learned more from what Ianto didn't say than from what he did. If the Bishop's Senior Investigator for the Dark Arts was involved, it was something that crossed the line between medicine and the spiritual realm. Seven years of Torchwood experience had taught him that those cases started at horrifying and worked their way to cataclysmic in a remarkably short period of time.

When he got to the Hub he found everyone gathered around the conference table. The usual good-natured banter was missing. Everyone clutched coffee mugs and looked tired and grim. Ianto was standing behind and to one side of Jack, so close that Jack could have leaned back and rested his head against Ianto's ribs; their right hands were linked and resting on Jack's shoulder. Owen felt a shiver crawl up his spine. Things were already on their way to cataclysmic.

As he reached the table, Andy looked up at him and sniffed like a bloodhound. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself, Owen? You stink.”

“Hey! I showered fifteen minutes ago!”

“Not that kind of stink. Old magic. There's old magic hanging all over you.”

Owen shrugged. “Well, about that.... I me this guy on the way back. Really weird.”

He told them about his encounter with the old man on the beach. When he had finished, Jack studied him until he squirmed. “And you're sure the word he used was garmhac?”

“As best as I can reproduce the sound. Why? What does it mean?”

“It's Irish for grandson. Kathy...?”

The Bishop's Investigator trained her Senses on Owen. It felt, he thought, like being scoured by fine sand. Now he understood why Kathy Swanson was both respected and feared.

“No, he's fine. Whatever it is, it is not demonic nor... unseelie.”

“All right. We'll set it in the back burner for now. Why don't you bring Owen up to speed?”

Owen slid into his usual seat. His mug was ready for him, as well as a small plate with assorted pastries. He waved his thanks at Ianto and poured himself some coffee from the large pot in the center of the table.

“Three weeks ago,” Kathy began, “Mrs. Rachel Mackie came to see me. She was in a full-blown panic. Her sister Mrs. Mary Williams had phoned her and invited her over for coffee and biscuits. Mrs. Mackie was very happy to get the call because Mrs. Williams had been severely depressed after the death of her oldest daughter, Dilys, and refused to see anyone. She rushed over to find music blaring and Mrs. Williams dancing. When Mrs. Mackie finally managed to get her sister back to some sort of coherence, Mrs. Williams told her she was celebrating Dilys's return. Mrs. Mackie thought her sister had lost her mind, but was forced to revise the theory when Mrs. Williams dragged her upstairs and she found Dilys sitting in bed watching television.” She held up a hand, forestalling Owen. “Dilys had been dead. There's absolutely no doubt about that. She died of bone cancer. Her doctor and her priest both signed the certificate. Mrs. Mackie was terrified, and rightfully so.”

“You went to see the girl?” Owen asked.

“And took Dilys's doctor with me. Mrs. Williams wasn't happy to see us, but she let us in. The Doctor managed to control himself enough to examine her thoroughly and certify that it was Dilys, then went outside and promptly sprayed the contents of his stomach all over Mrs. Williams's beautiful lawn. Dilys was moved to the Bishop's infirmary for observation. She's physically healthy. In fact, very healthy. Even her surgical scars are gone. But she's mute. According to Mrs. Williams, she hasn't spoken a word since her return.”

“And you're not willing to consider a miracle?” Owen asked curiously.

Kathy gave him a level look. “There have been four other cases since Dilys. All in Cardiff. In each case the... person... had someone who loved him or her with almost obsessive force.” She sighed. “We all say it. I'd do anything for him. But we wouldn't, not really. We wouldn't commit murder or sign away our souls. But there are some who would.”

She tossed back the last of her coffee and poured herself some more. “There's no sign of demonic intervention, but there's something really wrong with these poor souls. I have an awful feeling that they know it, too. Dilys sits there with a sorrowful look in her eyes, like someone remembering something that breaks her heart. The nurses say they all cry at night. Not out loud. Just tears rolling down their faces from under closed eyes.”

Suddenly nauseous, Owen pushed his plate away. “I still don't get why you need me, Jack. Another medical examination...”

“I don't want a medical examination. I want a Healer's examination.” Jack smiled at Owen, the kind of smile that made Owen brace himself. “You have a great deal of Talent, Owen, but you've leashed it with science, which is only right and proper in regular medical practice. But you're not in regular practice. Time to... integrate, for lack of a better word. You have been doing it unconsciously for at least nine months, you know.”

Owen started to object but Jack's confident gaze stopped him before he could say a word. He looked around the table and saw only the same confidence; Gwen and Tosh were grinning at him.

“You saved my life back then, with Elaine de Cussack,” Andy said quietly. “I was almost on the other side of the Veil. You pulled me back. Tosh thinks you did the same for Janet.”

Owen took a deep breath. “All right. Kathy?”

The Bishop's Investigator held up her keys. “Come on.”

The Bishop's palace was actually a compound occupying about a mile or so of space across the river from the Castle. The Abbey church faced the castle, simple and strong in its simplicity, with none of the soaring arches and massive stained glass windows of later architecture. Kathy continued past it and then turned into a narrow road that followed the precinct wall. At the far end, a gate faced a small park surrounded by Victorian townhouses. The gate arm swung up and the guard saluted as Kathy's small car zipped through without stopping. She pulled into the parking lot hard by the wall and parked in a space labeled with her name.

“Perks of the job?”

“More like Mother Katherine wants to make sure I can't refuse an invitation,” Kathy said, snickering a little. “Come this way. We'll go through the loading dock.”

They walked along a wide gravel path that was screened from view by a tall hedge. It ended in front of a set of garage-style doors. Next to them, a regular door with a keycard lock was propped open.

“Not much in terms of security, is there?” Owen asked.

“Not at this level. The pharmacy and the relic vault are tighter than the Castle's jewel room.”

She led the way out of the storage room and into the cloister proper. The infirmary occupied the first two floors of the building that faced the rear of the Cathedral. Although the palace had been thoroughly modernized, all the changes were behind the scenes. Outwardly the buildings had not changed since the thirteenth century, and all the rooms still opened to the cloister garden. Owen followed Kathy through the last door. The ward held six beds. Five of them were occupied. At the far end, a woman in a nursing sister's uniform sat behind a small desk.

Owen focused on the people on the beds. Three women, two men, ranging from teenage to late middle age. They sat or lay, immobile, eyes open but seemingly empty. Next to each, in what he realized were damn uncomfortable chairs, sat another person, probably a family member. Their eyes swiveled almost in unison to focus on the pair coming in through the door. Some looked resigned, others terrified. Only one was defiant.

“The woman looking like she'd like to fry us in oil is Mrs. Williams,” Kathy murmured. “Here comes sister Alis.”

The nun was taller than Owen, and, he thought wryly, considerably more imposing. She shook his hand briskly. “I am glad to see you, Doctor Harper. Maybe you can make sense of all of this. Heaven knows someone needs to.”

Owen put on a show of looking around, but he already knew who he wanted to examine first. The others were cool to his Senses, as if the bodies were not quite inhabited, or as if the intelligences that inhabited them were beyond his ability to understand. In contrast, Dilys was a fireball of human energy. There was a real person behind those eyes, trapped and terrified.

As he approached the bed Dilys's head swiveled and their eyes met. The image of a bird beating frantically against iron bars exploded in Owen's mind. He was vaguely aware of Mrs. Williams trying to step between them and of Sister Alys pulling her away. He dropped his shields, letting his Senses extend outwards into Dilys's body and mind. Kathy had been right. The body was completely healthy, but the mind was filled with fear and rage. If he wasn't careful, she could swamp him. His hands came up, almost as if to defend himself, but hers were there to grip his wrists. The touch burned.

“Send... back...” The croak brought a scream from Mrs. Williams and a gasp from Sister Alis. “Send... back.”

Owen twisted his wrists out of her grip, turning his palms so he could touch hers lightly. “You want to go back to where you were?”

The snap of her neck as she nodded made him wince. “Happy. Was... happy.”

The effort seemed to have taken all her energy and she collapsed into the bed. Mrs. Williams wrenched herself out of Sister Alis's hands and rushed to wet a cloth and wipe her daughter's unresponsive face.

“What did you do, Mrs. Williams?” Owen asked softly. “How did you bring her back?”

She kept her eyes averted. “I didn't do anything.”

“You did. You did something that brought your daughter back. Can't you see she's desperately unhappy? She doesn't want to be here.”

“She doesn't know what she's saying,” the voice was flat. “When she's better...”

“She won't get better. Her soul was yanked back into her body, but it has no anchor. Dilys is trapped in that... meat box you've made for her.”

“No!” Mrs. Williams dropped into the chair and started to rock, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “She's my baby and I won't let her go, I won't.”

A touch on his shoulder made Owen jump. He turned around to find a man standing behind him, tears pouring down his face. “It's... there are these guys. Brothers. Vic and Greg Cunnick. They have a warehouse in Splott. Foodstuffs, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Then they started doing... things. Miracles, maybe. Healing people. Word spread. Then they said they could... do this. Bring our dead back. There were some conditions, but they said they could... and I wanted Bethany back. We'd only been married one year when the car accident... and... I thought, why not? Cheat death. But Bethany's not here. You're right. It's just a meat box...”

He slid to his knees, weeping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this “alternative history”, The Rock of Cashel is still under the control of the Eóganachta, the great Royal Dynasty of Muman (and Jack's cousins), who, by treaty, must marry a princess of the Tuatha de Danann; legend has it that somewhere in the Rock there's a door that leads to the Tuatha kingdom...

Owen watched Kathy Swanson pace. Her rage washed over him, making his nerve endings tingle. It was pushing all his buttons, and he could feel his own emotions surging. He noticed that Ianto was keeping to the other side of the Hub, well out of direct empathic contact. He tightened his shields as much as he could and tried to wait it out.

“Ten thousand pounds,” he heard her whisper as she passed in front of him again. “Going price for pain, sorrow, and the possibility of eternal damnation. When I get my hands on those two...”

“Kathy,” Jack said as he came downstairs, Gwen right behind him, “if you wear a hole in my floor I'm going to bill the repairs to the Episcopal slush fund.”

She whirled around, obviously spoiling for a fight, but something in his look stopped her cold. She took a deep breath, shaking herself as if physically shaking the anger off, eyes widening as she took in their protective stances.

“Mother of God. I'm so sorry. Are you all all right? Ianto?”

“Don't worry. I kept well away and happily occupied.” He made a small offering gesture with the loaded tray he was carrying. “Fresh coffee and white chocolate almond truffles, lightly warmed.”

She snatched one and bit into it, closing her eyes with voluptuous pleasure as she chewed. “You are definitely on the path to beatification.” She took the _hand over the chocolate and nobody gets hurt_ mug Ianto had designated as hers and sipped. “Forget that. Straight to canonization.”

He chuckled as he set down the tray and passed out coffee and plates to everyone. “I don't think the Church is quite ready for me. Speaking of which... Jack?”

“Gwen and I spoke to the Bishop, the Lord Cardinal, the Chief Rabbi, the Head of the Council of Islam, and the Speaker for the Circles.” Jack slumped gracefully down next to Owen. “Not to mention Gwen's godmother. Everyone has agreed. We can handle this is any way we see fit.”

“Well, that's a relief,” Kathy said. “My Lord Cardinal can be a stroppy git at times.”

“He was, shall we say, aware of the negative connotations of two blokes selling resurrection services from street corners.” Gwen gave them her best high-voltage grin. “He was even polite to me.”

“Give it a year and you'll be the official Torchwood liaison to the religious communities,” Jack grinned at her gobsmacked expression. “Hey, you thought I hired you for your pretty face?”

Everyone laughed. Gwen stuck her tongue out at Jack. “Prat.”

Andy offered the truffles to Tosh, who looked at them dubiously. “Come on. One more won't hurt, and you know you want to.” He set down the plate in front of her and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Tosh and I have been looking into Vic and Greg Cunnick. Cousins. Raised together by Vic's parents after Greg's family was killed in a traffic accident. Family left Ireland and settled here when Vic and Greg were still very young. Both typical lads from Splott. Manual work and pretty crimes. Then seven months ago they went on an extended vacation to Ireland. When they came back they set themselves up in the warehouse district. Wholesale produce.”

“And resurrections,” Ianto said, deadpan. “For ten thousand pounds a job.” He frowned. “Doesn't that strike anybody as odd?”

“You could say everything about it is odd, Tea-Boy,” Owen snarked.

“Ha. Ha.” Ianto's voice was absolutely flat. “I mean the amounts. They could be selling their services to people with very deep pockets and bad habits to match. These are greedy, immoral little piglets, but they're limiting themselves to a few measly thousands when they could be making millions. Any one of us could come up with the name of someone right here in Cardiff who would pay ten times the asking price.”

Jack sat up slowly. “It’s stolen. They’ve managed to steal a Quintessence.”

Ianto nodded. “There are very few such powerful objects, and the people who guard them aren’t exactly what I would call forgiving. I wonder why they didn't just run to America or Australia.”

“Maybe because whatever they're using wouldn't work very well there,” Tosh blurted, and blushed a little as everyone turned towards her. “I've been reading a little magical theory. Cultures like the Native-Americans and the Aboriginal Peoples are based on radically different world views from the European, so their magic is inherently different, even if the manifestations are similar. It works more or less the same with the Asian cultures, but there's been so much contact between Europe and Asia over millennia that the magics can... tolerate each other. The North American Union and the Californian Republics might be even worse, because the amount of intermarriage between immigrants and Native Americans is creating a completely new magical... map. I'm making a hash of explaining this,” she sighed.

“No, you're not. You're on the right track, but you’re missing some information. A Quintessence is sentient, and it tends to prefer to keep close to its native soil,” Jack said. “It might even take measures to protect itself. They might have tried to leave and.... Tosh?”

“I'm on it.” Her hands flew over the keyboard. “Got it. Victor and Gregory Cunnick bought tickets to New York six months ago on the Cunard Princess Adenydd, sailing out of Cardiff.”

“Couldn't risk planes?” Andy asked. “Or couldn't afford the freight?”

“What happened?” Kathy asked.

“The day before sailing, Vic was in a car accident . Hospital for two weeks. They tried again a week after he came out. The Princess Margaret this time. There was a fire. Their home nearly burned down. Both of them in hospital for smoke inhalation.” She grinned. “They seem to have given up after that.”

“I would have too.” Andy grinned back. “So they're stuck in Cardiff.”

“And much too close to whoever the original owner is. They don't dare call attention to themselves.” Ianto said. “But they couldn't resist picking up a few thousands.”

“The question is,” Owen tried to keep his voice level. “What the hell is it that they've got. There can't be too many things that bring the dead back to life.”

“Not many.” Kathy said. “We Christians believe there are some people who have had, at a specific moment, the ability to request God's intervention, and some of them have healed the sick and cast out demons. Raising the dead is not something so easy. There are stories, of course, but not very many confirmed. Relics, maybe, but even then....” She shook her head. “The only thing that comes to mind is the Grail. But even that is in question. There are no religious sources for the story, you know.”

“After I met Tommy I did some research into the Grail legends. I seem to remember,” Tosh said, “that there's a pagan object that is supposed to be the true inspiration behind the Grail. A... cauldron?”

Gwen, who had been tossing back the last of her coffee, choked as she tried to keep it from spraying everyone seated near her. Ianto smacked her sharply between the shoulder blades and held a napkin to her nose as coffee leaked out.

“Jack?” She rasped once she had her breathing under control.

“Yeah. That might be a problem.” Jack's fingers beat a rapid tattoo on his knee. “Can we ask?”

“I don't know that they would tell us,” she said. “It's not the sort of thing you tell an outsider. You have contacts in Eire. There might something at that end.”

“Can you two let us in on the secret?” Owen said with false politeness.

“Sorry,” Gwen said. “The Tuatha de Danann have four treasures. The sword of Nuada, that no one can escape once it is drawn; the Spear of Lug, that makes its holder invincible; the Stone of Fal, that cries out when the true King sits on it; and the Cauldron of the Dagda, that never runs empty.”

“And?” Owen prompted, barely keeping a hold on his temper.

“And during a battle, the Cauldron could be used to bring back the dead soldiers so they could fight again.”

“Mary Mother of God,” Kathy said. “I should have remembered it. Of course I should have remembered it. There's a even a legend that those that returned were mute so they could not reveal what they had seen in the afterlife.”

“Now that we know, we can figure out the rest later,” Owen said impatiently. “We need to get to Vic and Greg before they pull the resurrection stunt again. It hurts them, damm it. Dilys Williams is nearly out of her mind with pain and fear. We need to find them, we need to stop it, and more importantly, we need to find out how to reverse what's happening. How do we go about it?”

“I checked the warehouse,” Tosh said. “Security is crap. I can override all their passwords from here. But I am wondering... Jack, if they’re using that cauldron, how did they get hold of it? I don’t think you could just walk into Cashel and take it.”

“No. And even if they could, it could summon the Dagda himself for protection.” Jack took a deep breath. “Tosh, open an outside line, please. Use my personal phone book. Under C. Caoilfhionn, private.”

In a few seconds a female voice came through the speakers. “Jack?”

Jack launched into a long speech in Gaelic. Owen looked at Ianto, Gwen, and Andy in turn. Three _don't ask me_ shrugs later let Owen know that whatever Jack was speaking was not modern Irish, Welsh, or Scots Gaelic. They waited until Jack switched back to English.

“My lady, may I present Kathy Swanson, Chief Investigator to the Bishop of Cardiff. Toshiko Sato, Torchwood technologist and speaker-to-animals. Gwen Cooper, medium and investigator. Doctor Owen Harper, doctor and Healer. And of course, you know Andy Davidson and Ianto Jones. Everyone, the Lady Caoilfhionn of the Eóganachta Aine, princess of Muman.”

“A very minor one, I assure you.” Owen could hear the amussement in her voice. “Hello, Ianto. When are you bringing my scapegrace of a cousin to visit?”

“Soon, my lady.”

“I will hold you to it, then. Jack has told me of your situation. I am sorry to say I might be about to make it worse.”

Owen snorted. “We're Torchwood, ma'am. Worse is only a matter of degrees around here.”

This time she laughed. “I suppose so, doctor Harper. Still this is on the catastrophic end of worse, I'm afraid. The item you are looking for was taken from Cashel about seven months ago. The Keeper of the Treasures did not inform the family until very recently. In other circumstances we would have told Jack immediately, but grandfather forbade it.”

“Grandfather?” asked Kathy.

“The original owner of the item. He is old and set in his ways.” She seemed fondly amused. For a moment Owen wondered about the kind of person who would talk about one of the most powerful Lords of the Tuatha as merely a favorite grandfather. “He decided to go look for it himself .”

“If I may ask, ma'am,” Toshiko said. “How did it go missing? Your security is legendary.”

The Lady's voice hardened. “It is hard to protect against honored guests. Seven months ago we received a delegation from the Court of Queen Mab, headed by her granddaughter, the Lady Jasmine. We housed and fed them as befitted their station. This was our payment.”

The name sent shockwaves through her audience. “Jasmine was there?” Gwen gasped.

“Indeed. She spoke highly of you, Jack.”

“She hates my guts.”

“I thought so, but in diplomatic circles that is the sort of lie one accepts. The Lady Jasmine and her entourage spent quite a lot of time touring the countryside, and did not seem in any hurry to leave. Then suddenly they packed and left within a day, claiming there was need for them back in Scotland. One of my ladies, who was present in the Great Hall that morning, says the Lady Jasmine was in a towering rage.”

“God almighty,” Andy said. “Don't tell me those two idiots stole the thing from her!”

“I believe,” the Lady Caoilfhionn's voice turned even harder and icier. “That the proper interpretation would be that she arranged for them to steal it and then they reneged on the deal. One more thing. Our Ambassador to the Scottish Courts tells us that the Lady Jasmine has dropped out of the usual round of entertainments. She is said to be resting after her trip.”

Jack snorted. “On her way to Cardiff, more likely. And so is the Dagda. If he decides to hand Jasmine the punishment she deserves, Mab is likely to use it as an excuse for war.”

“Then I would suggest that you take steps to get your hands on the cauldron as soon as it may be. You know what they say about possession being nine tenths of the law.”


	4. Chapter 4

Owen tapped Ianto on the shoulder and pointed towards a small door half-hidden behind piles of discarded shipping boxes. Ianto nodded. They scanned the area until they were sure as they could be that they hadn't been noticed then made a dash for the warehouse. Jack and Andy were moving in from the other side of the parking lot. Gwen had requested and had been granted an audience with King Gwynn Ap Nudd. This is the second time the Unseelie court has dared to use Kymry as their hunting ground, she had told them grimly. There is no way in this world or the next that King Gwynn will not take steps. Tosh and Kathy had stayed behind at the Hub, running worst-case scenarios and activating emergency plans with MI5.  
  
Ianto placed his fingertips against the door and pushed. It swung open with a faint squeak. He grabbed it before it could continue moving. They slid inside and then Ianto gently pushed it closed.   
  
“Play invisible,” Owen whispered. “No need for two targets.”  
  
Ianto rolled his eyes at him, but did as he was told. Even though he had seen it happen many times, it still made Owen's skin crawl when Ianto suddenly disappeared from his perception. He barely stopped himself from reaching out and trying to make physical contact. Instead, he looked around the small airlock-style entrance. It was cramped, tiny, and it smelled of rotting biomass, as if he was standing in a forest floor that didn't get any sunlight. He reached for a breath mint and popped it in his mouth, then put another one in the palm of his hand, holding it out. He shivered as he watched it disappear too.  
  
The narrow corridor beyond the inner door was stacked high with half-opened boxes. The stench was worse, if that were even possible. There was a door at the far end. It had a frosted glass inset and through it Owen could see a greenish-gold light that pulsated slowly. He found himself automatically counting the pulses. It didn't take long to figure it out: the light echoed the rhythm of a healthy adult heart. He moved towards it.  
  
As he reached the door, he could hear voices. Two men were arguing, and it wasn't a friendly slanging match over beer at the pub.  
  
“Sounds like the Cunnick family bonds are snapping,” Owen muttered. “We better get in there before someone decides to end the partnership.” He started for the door, but an invisible hand stopped him. “Um.... yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I suppose you do make a better target.” He winced as knuckles rapped him smartly on the back of the head. “And they say you're a nice bloke.”  
  
He flattened himself against the wall as the door swung open. The shouting in the room beyond continued for a few minutes, then there were two sharp thumps as heavy objects hit the ground. Grinning, Owen pulled out his gun and went in.  
  
It was a large, dingy room without a single stick of furniture or light bulb to be seen. Darkness seemed to skitter along the walls and pool into corners, more smoke than shadow. In the center of the room was the largest iron cauldron Owen had ever seen. It stood on three short legs over what looked and smelled like a peat fire. The pulsing light was emanating from it. For a moment it was terrifying; then Owen remembered what this place really represented, and the fear was replaced with disgust.  
  
“Nice atmosphere,” he said to the two men sprawling on the floor staring in horror at a suddenly visible Ianto looming over them with what must have seemed like a cannon pointed in their direction. “You two fans of Hammer classics?” There was no answer, but he wasn't expecting any.   
  
“There's another room in the back.” Ianto jerked his head towards one of the corners.   
  
Owen nodded and plunged into the darkness. It felt cool and clammy and it licked at his exposed hands and face, leaving thin trails of moisture behind. He could barely see the wall. He laid his hand on the brick, clamping his teeth over the need to chuck up his breakfast, and felt his way. Finally, just as he was certain he couldn't stand it any longer, he felt the knob under his hand. He turned it slowly and peered in.  
  
It was a reassuringly normal office, with a single window looking out to the parking lot, covered with some sort of paper shade so it was only dimly lit. There was no horror-movie atmosphere here. He was about to close the door and turn back when something made him pull the door completely open and feel for the light switch. The sudden flood of bright white light blinded him for a few seconds. Blinking furiously he managed to get his eyes working again. The room seemed empty, but he wasn't taking any chances. Slamming the door flat against the wall, he went in, gun at the ready.   
  
Nothing. One more time he started to leave but the something wasn't letting him go yet. He turned in a slow circle until he was facing the door again. There were some metal filing cabinets next to it, and then some boxes piled up between them and the wall. There was something odd about it, though he couldn't have put into words exactly what. He pushed at one of the boxes and it toppled over easily. He realized they were empty. He gave one near the bottom a hard kick and the whole wall came tumbling down.   
  
In a small space between the filing cabinet and the wall was a man. He had been tied to a chair and obviously beaten. Owen recognized him immediately. It was the old man that had washed up on the beach at Wild Rose Cottage. The one that had called him grandson.  
  
Cursing sulfurously under his breath, he rushed to help the old man. The pulse under his fingers beat in a familiar rhythm. It took him a second to identify it and when he did, he dropped his fingers from the old man's throat as if he'd been burned.  
  
The man's heartbeat was the same as that of the light coming from the cauldron.  
  
Owen swallowed bile. This had to be the Dagda. The old man he had Healed on the beach was... damned if he knew what. A God? Owen’s years in Torchwood had taught him to distrust both gods and demons; he had seen too many examples of how dicey it could be to be either loved or hated by Power. Still, he couldn't leave the old man there, if only because they would need him to deal with Dilys and the other patients. He untied the ropes, then rubbed his hands across the old man's neck and shoulders. He could feel strength surging under his hands, and opened himself up, pouring as much energy as he could into the old man's body, until he was lightheaded.  
  
Strong hands gripped his wrists and pushed him away gently. “Enough, garmhac. All is well now.”  
  
Owen staggered a little. “Not bloody near anywhere well, it isn't. There's a bunch of people in hospital who are trapped in their own bodies, a megalomaniac twelve-year-old is about to trigger a war between Fair kingdoms, and I can't figure out a way to tell my best friend that I'm in love with her!” The shock of blurting out something he hadn't even known himself left him stuttering. “Ah... I didn't ...”  
  
The old man grinned at him. “I cannot help you with the last one, worse the luck, but the first two I can do something about. Help me up.”  
  
Owen took the offered arm and tugged gently. For a moment it felt as if he was trying to lift the weight of the world, and then it was just a weak old man who wasn’t quite steady on his feet. He noticed that the Dagda’s eyes were unfocused. For a mad moment he wondered if gods got concussions. Then the old man stumbled and his right hand touched Owen’s chest briefly.   
  
Images poured into his brain, blotting out the here and now. Millions upon millions of beings, some human, most not, but all living and thinking and feeling; world after world, some so glorious they brought tears to his eyes and some so horrifying he wanted to scrub the sight from his eyes, and some so alien he knew he couldn’t describe them, much less understand them.... He let go of the old man’s arm and stumbled away. A memory of a conversation he’d had with Gwen resurfaced: _the greatest difference between us and the Gods is that they can see the whole of creation at once_. Closing his eyes he took several deep breaths and pushed the whole thing away.  
  
“You’ll do,” the old man murmured, almost to himself. “But now to business. The... twelve-year-old megalomaniac is here.”  
  
He walked out of the office, Owen at his heels. The shadows flowed towards them, and now Owen could see faces in the inky pools. But it was the sounds that caught his attention: high-pitched giggles and screams that reminded Owen of his internship in a London psychiatric hospital. He rushed forward, ignoring the old man’s attempts at holding him back.  
  
Ianto stood more or less in the same place he had been in before, but where the Vic and Greg had been there were two piles of clothes and dust. Circling slowly widdershins around Ianto there were five Unseelie warriors in full armor, swords held at arms’ length. Once in a while a blade would flash towards Ianto, only to bounce off with a dull metal _clang_ and a shower of sparks. Ianto seemed unfazed, arms held loosely at his side, face impassive, but Owen could sense the amount of effort it was taking him to hold off the attack. A few more blows and Ianto's shield would collapse.  
  
“Jack!” Jasmine stood near the cauldron, a happy smile on her inhumanly beautiful face. “Come out, come out wherever you are! Or don't you love your boyfriend?” Her giggles made Owen want to slap his hands over his ears. “I'm going to have him sliced into teeny, tiny ribbons, Jack. Are you going to hide the whole time, while he screams?”  
  
“I'm here, Jasmine.” Jack emerged from the shadows at the far end of the room, Andy one step behind. “What do you want?”  
  
“Your head on a gold platter, Jack.” She was suddenly hard and vicious. “I don't like people who interfere with me. And yes, the old bitch told me all about you. You don't scare me, Jack. I'm the Heir to the Unseelie Throne, and no half-demon bastard scares me.”   
  
Jack's smile froze Owen to the core. “I should, little Princess.”  
  
He held up his right hand towards her, palm up. Slowly, so slowly that at first Owen couldn't see the movement, the fingers began to curl upwards towards the palm. As they moved, Jasmine was lifted off her feet. She screamed in panic. The warriors circling Ianto stopped and turned to look; one of them dropped to his knees, wailing. Jasmine struggled against the steady pull; Owen could feel her Power battering itself uselessly against whatever it was Jack was doing. She was lifted upwards until she was hovering over the cauldron.  
  
“Shall I let go, little Princess?” Jack smiled widened a little. “Your people have only one life, long as it might be. Shall I send you to your final and true death?”  
  
She held still. “You drop me, my warriors will kill your lover. Are you going to take that chance?”  
  
“No chance. You may have had a chance when he was alone, and even then it was a question. Now, little Princess, decide.” His hand started to open. “Shall I let go?”  
  
“No! No!” She screamed, real fear now in her voice. “Don't.”  
  
Jack stared at her as if considering his next action. Owen held his breath, then let it out slowly as Jack pulled Jasmine away from the cauldron and set her back down. “Remember this, little Princess. I will kill anyone who harms those I love.” His hand twisted, and she jerked upwards. “And remember this.” He flicked his hand and she crumpled to the floor. “Next time there will be no reprieval. Not even for your grandmother.”  
  
“There won't be a next time.”   
  
Owen whirled around. Caught up in the battle of wills in front of him, he had forgotten the old man. Now he saw the true face of the Dagda, the Oldest of the Tuatha, the AllFather, and the breath was knocked out of him.  
  
“I do believe,” the old man said mildly. “That I will visit my cousin Mab. She has invited me several times before and I have always been too busy. I shall take this little truant back with me.”  
  
Jasmine gave him a defiant look. “You have no power, old man. I took it away from you, remember?”  
  
He smiled down at her. “What in the world has Mab been teaching you, child? My power does not reside in that little toy.” He turned to the warriors still standing around Ianto. “I suggest a long exile, gentlemen. Several hundred years should do it.”  
  
He waved his hands and the warriors disappeared. The old man sighed. “This younger generation has no bottom. Now, then.” He walked to the cauldron and laid his palms against the metal. “Well met, old friend. Please forgive me for having mislaid you.” He chanted something under his breath, and suddenly the cauldron was no bigger than a child's toy. “Garmhac.”  
  
Before he could think through the implications, Owen had stepped to the old man's side. The Dagda held out the cauldron. “Fill it with good clear water and steep holly berries in it. I am sure Jack has some in storage somewhere. Put three drops of the water on your patients' tongue and tuck a single berry under it. It will ease their passage home. And don't worry. There will be someone waiting for them.”  
  
Owen nodded. “How do I... return this to you?”  
  
“We will meet again. Keep it safe for me until then.” He leaned down and grabbed Jasmine's arm. “Let's go, child.”  
  
“Sire.” Jack said. “The Lord of Annwfn rides north to face the Unseelie Court. This is not the first time Jasmine has brought Mab down into Kymry.”  
  
“I think he will find she has not entered it. Mab is no fool.” He grinned as he reached out to ruffle Jack's hair. “Have you ever figured out how to catch the salmon?”  
  
Jack laughed. “Not yet, but I keep trying.”  
  
“As it should be, boy. Keep yourself and your people safe.” He made a Sign, and reality parted to reveal a glen bisected by a road that led up into towering mountains. The sound of a Hunt could be heard in the instance. “It's important. Something is coming, and we will need you all.”  
  
And they were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The RPS is the Royal Protection Service

“Jack Harkness!”   
  
Jack looked up to see an irritated Ianto marching in through the library door, hand holding a sheaf of papers. He swallowed his chuckle and tried to look suitably chagrined.   
  
“Did you see this?” Ianto demanded, shoving the papers under Jack's nose. “This is... this is....” He waved his arms around as words failed him.  
  
“I know. But look at it from the RPS point of view. Most of their charges have already announced they'll be attending and now my cousins are descending en masse from Ireland and Scotland. And I can't not invite my own godmother, can't I? Even if I didn't love her, it wouldn't do to offend the White Lady of the Seelie Court.” He put down the book he had been reading. “And now King Gwynn has not-so-subtly hinted to Gwen that there should be a delegation from Annwfn. It seems logical to hold it at Dinas Bran.”  
  
Ianto sighed. “I know it's tactically sound, Jack. It's just that...” He shook his head and plopped down on the floor next to Jack's armchair. “Never mind.”  
  
Jack gripped Ianto's chin and tilted his head so they could see into each other's eyes . “Please tell me.”  
  
“I know what you are and I love you as you are. Don't ever doubt that.” Ianto's hand wrapped around Jack's wrist. “It's just that... I'd forgotten who you are.” He saw Jack's confusion and sighed again. “Look, half-demon, spirit gate, brother to weevils, magician... that I can cope with. But you're a _prince_!” Jack looked utterly gobsmacked for a moment, then he roared with laughter. Ianto swatted his hand away, mortified. “I knew you would do that.”  
  
Jack wiped his eyes with the hem of his t-shirt. “Ianto. I am not a prince. My grandfather was lord of a large holding, yes, and as laird he had some of the power of a King, but I was illegitimate and half-demon. My mother left me behind as soon as she could get up from childbed. For the first ten years of my life I slept on straw in a hermit's cell in a tiny island, and when my aunt died I was kicked out by my grandfather's soldiers, even though I had been granted the tower and lands in her will. Before they threw me into the ocean, they beat me half to death.” He saw the horror in Ianto's eyes. “The only reason I made it was that Mab happened to be riding by. Her warriors scared off the soldiers. She kept me a prisoner for five years, using me as a bargaining chip with the White Lady. The Unseelie Court wasn't a bad prison, as prisons go. Mab was not cruel and she wouldn't allow others to be. She had me educated properly. I was allowed to correspond with my godmother. It wasn't a terrible life.”  
  
“How did you escape?'” Ianto asked.  
  
“I didn't. The Doctor showed up one day. He and Mab closeted themselves in her study and when they came out I had been traded like a side of beef. I went to live with the Doctor and got myself yet another education and then on to Salamanca for University. I didn't return to the United Kingdoms until eighteen sixty nine. Travelled all over the world, spent time in Cashel with the descendants of my mother's youngest sister, worked with the Doctor. Then Torchwood came calling. The Doctor and I had a blazing row over it, but I joined. A few years later my Scottish relatives contacted me. They apologized and returned Hestan Island to me. And that's the whole story.”  
  
Ianto felt shaken to the core. In a few minutes Jack had revealed more than he had in all the time he had known him – and yet he knew Jack was keeping the worst parts to himself. He reached up and caressed Jack's cheek gently. “I think there was a great deal more to it than that. And I am sorry I'm acting like such a prat. All I can say is that I love you and sometimes I look at myself and wonder what in the world your relatives will think of such a mesalliance.”  
  
“You mean what would they think of the union between the Guardian's Heir and the Swordbearer? Or of Ianto and Jack?”  
  
“Either. Both.”  
  
“I happen to know that they consider the first one very suitable. And they really, really like the second one. Caoilfhionn says you'll keep me under control.”  
  
Ianto's smile turned decidedly lascivious. “Do you want me to keep you under control?” His joke fell flat as Jack paled. “Jack. I wouldn't do anything... you know I wouldn't use...” He felt himself blush as his protestation stuttered to a halt, but he couldn't find the words to reassure Jack. If Jack didn't trust him.... panic grabbed at his throat. He jumped to this feet. “I'm going to go make some coffee...”  
  
He hadn't even managed three steps before Jack's arms wrapped around him. “It's not you. I would trust you with my life. I have trusted you with my life. It's Yggdrasil. I hung on that tree for I don't know how long and I couldn't move.” Ianto felt moisture on his neck. “It hurt so much. Yggdrasil kept growing and twigs and branches went through me and all the time his pain was in my head, so much bigger than mine, and I couldn't escape it.” The last words came out in an agonized whisper. “I couldn't move.”  
  
Ianto put his hands over Jack's and pulled them apart until he could turn around. Neither one of them was much of a romantic, and they often tended to show rather than tell, but this time he sensed Jack needed the words.  
  
“My love. My dearest love. I have you safe.”  
  
He led Jack to the bedroom, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Jack leaned into him, letting him carry their weight. Ianto could feel the shivers running through Jack's body; he had never seen Jack so vulnerable. Part of him was terrified by it and part was elated. Jack trusted him enough to tell him about his past. Jack trusted him enough to let him see his weakness. A soft laugh bubbled out of him.  
  
“What's so funny?”  
  
Ianto squeezed Jack a little closer. “Not funny. More like... stupidly proud. Happy enough to dance a highland fling. I feel like shouting to the world that Jack Harkness loves me.”  
  
Jack chuckled. “The world will clip you one in the ear for being thick.”  
  
“Probably.” Ianto maneuvered Jack so he could pull down the duvet. “Come on. Get into bed.”  
  
Jack stripped off his running pants and t-shirt before snuggling into the bed. He refused to wear any sort of pyjama to sleep, claiming it made him itchy, and insisted on Ianto being naked too, since Ianto's pyjamas would touch him. The first time Ianto was presented with the _your pyjamas will make me itch_ hypothesis he had laughed so hard he had ended up with a case of the hiccoughs, but he had to admit he had come to love it. Not only did it feel sinfully delicious to cuddle his lover skin to skin, but he had discovered that Jack's body temperature was naturally high; it was like sleeping next to a furnace.  
  
He undressed as rapidly as he could and slid in next to Jack. Propping himself up on one arm, he looked down at him. Jack's eyes had turned nearly violet with emotion, and Ianto could feel himself drowning. “That's what Homer meant.”  
  
“Homer?”  
  
“When he called the Aegean _the wine-dark sea_. It's the color of your eyes right now.”  
  
“My eyes are glowing red?”  
  
Ianto smacked Jack on the arm. “You have no romance in your soul, do you?”  
  
“Oooh,” Jack said in a surprised tone, “it's romance you want. You should have said something.” Lunging up, he grabbed Ianto by the shoulders and reversed their position. “ _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day_ ,” he declaimed in the cheesiest radio announcer voice Ianto had ever heard.  
  
“Just shut up already,” Ianto growled, hauling on Jack's head with both hands and pulling him down to press their mouths together. He felt Jack sigh and suddenly he wanted to show him all the tenderness and care he had missed. He opened his mouth and licked at Jack's lips with his tongue, teasing his way into Jack's mouth. He felt Jack's eagerness, but held him to a slow torturous pace, stroking a path down Jack's back to his buttocks, easing them apart and letting his fingertips feather softly across Jack's opening.   
  
Jack tore his mouth away and buried his face in the curve of Ianto's neck. “God, Ianto.”  
  
“Let me take care of you.” Ianto kissed Jack's temple. “Let me love you.”  
  
Jack raised his head and looked at him, then rolled off to lay flat on his back. “Do with me as thou wilt.”  
  
The old-fashioned phrasing shook Ianto to the core. He lifted himself to straddle Jack's hips. Taking Jack's arms, he positioned them fully extended upwards and outwards. He felt Jack move his legs to match the position of his arms, until he made a x on the bed. Ianto leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of Jack's head.  
  
He began at Jack's hairline and worked his way down, inch by inch, brushing his lips across Jack's skin, pressing kisses, nipping and sucking gently. Every one of his senses was concentrated on Jack. Slowly he opened his dark Sense until he could perceive Jack whole. He could hear the thundering of Jack's heartbeat, smell his arousal, taste the coppery sweetness of his blood, human and yet not. Every touch of his fingertips on Jack's skin sent tiny bursts of energy racing along his own skin. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the river of sensation, _knowing_ Jack, letting Jack know him.  
  
“Now, now, now.”   
  
Jack's low chant pulled him back into reality. He found himself kneeling between Jack's legs, Jack's thighs wrapped over his. He cupped Jack's arse and lifted him. He had enough presence of mind to go slow. Fighting against Jack's unspoken demand, he pushed in inch by inch until he was buried to the root, then started ro rock, barely moving. Jack's breathing sounded like sobbing; Ianto could feel him reaching desperately for release. Reaching down, he wrapped his fingers around Jack's cock and stroking lightly. Jack arched, breath exploding out of his long in a long, low whine, and he erupted over Ianto's fingers. The sight sent Ianto over the edge, and he convulsed, pouring himself into Jack. Suddenly weak, he slid down to rest on Jack's chest.  
  
“Ianto, Ianto, Ianto.” The soft whisper caressed his cheek. “Thank you.”


End file.
